


We Know We're Gonna Let It Burn

by the_genderman



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asshole Brock Rumlow, Bottom Steve Rogers, Casual misogyny, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, General Dickery, Hate Sex, Internalized Biphobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, PoV: Rumlow, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Regret, STRIKE team mission, Slurs, and they never speak of it again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 14:07:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_genderman/pseuds/the_genderman
Summary: Steve Rogers has made some bad decisions in his lifetime. Sleeping with his asshole STRIKE teammate while on a mission is definitely one his worst.





	We Know We're Gonna Let It Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. So. Dead dove, do not eat and all that good stuff. Let’s get this out of the way _first_. Brock Rumlow is an asshole of the first water, and this ficlet does not shy away from that. If you’re looking for happy fluff, I have many other non-Rumlow offerings available. If you’re looking for dickery, hate-sex, a very bad idea one-night-stand that they both end up regretting for different reasons, casual misogyny, internalized and externalized homophobia, slurs, internalized biphobia (whether or not he realizes that’s what it is), you’ll find that in here. If you don’t want that, or at any point feel uncomfortable, please utilize your browser’s back button and/or close this tab. No judgement.
> 
> Set somewhere pre CA:TWS, but post Avengers. Steve’s joined SHIELD and has worked with the STRIKE team long enough to sort of know Rumlow, but still hasn’t really settled in yet.
> 
> Title is lyrics from the Disturbed song “Torn”

Brock slammed his fist against the motel room wall, feeling little flakes of plaster drizzling down from the ceiling onto the back of his neck. He huffed out a frustrated sigh and stepped away from the wall, trying to collect himself enough to speak. His STRIKE teammates in the next room knew better than to come bother him about a little noise, but it wouldn’t do to completely lose his cool in front of Captain America. Even undercover in a motel in the ass-end of nowhere with no one there to see anything. He held up his hand, index finger and thumb pressed together and swung round to face Steve.

“We were _this_ close to getting him, how does he just _disappear_? He was there three hours ago, at the bar, wasn’t he? I didn’t hallucinate it?” Brock asked, glaring at Steve like it was his fault their two-week-long undercover mission fizzled and died. Probably was. Ain’t too many big, blond, buff, Dorito-shaped assholes around here. Somebody probably put two and two together and ratted them out.

“No, he was definitely there,” Steve reluctantly agreed, running his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead. A little tell that meant he was just as frustrated as his teammate, but not quite as vehement about it. “Something must’ve tipped him off, but for him to have cleared out everything of importance _that_ quickly? He was ready to run, no matter what we’d’ve done.”

“Some_thing_? More like some_one_, I bet,” Brock scoffed, looking pointedly at Steve.

“And just what do you mean by that?” Steve asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

“I mean, c’mon, look at you,” Brock said, sweeping his arm out. “You could maybe _try_ to look less out of place?”

“I’m not even _doing_ anything,” Steve retorted, putting his hands on his belt buckle, trying not to rise to the bait. They’d been on edge for almost the entire past week trying to get everything airtight, and now _this_.

“Yeah, that’s the problem! You _look_ like Captain America. How many gym rats do you think this rinky-dink little dickhole town has—it doesn’t even _have_ a gym—and here you are, looking like a Men’s Health magazine cover come to life,” Brock said, inching closer and closer to Steve as he paced the tiny motel room. “Would it kill you to fucking _try_ to blend in?”

“I _do_ try!” Steve said, reflexively widening his stance and bracing himself, squaring his shoulders. Like he expected a fight. “I grew a damn beard for this mission and I think you yelling about Captain America is gonna tip more people off than me just being me. I’m pretty sure everyone outside can hear you; these walls are thin enough.

“Oh, _I’m_ too loud?” Brock stopped pacing and stepped up into Steve’s space, jabbing a finger into his chest and trying not to think about how _close_ they were. The STRIKE team was no stranger to close quarters on missions, in the quinjets, but this? This just felt different. Everyone was worked up, on edge, looking for a release of some sort. He knew it was a dumb idea, but it wouldn’t be all that bad to just, y’know, get in there for a bit, think about what it might be like, right? Not that he’d _do_ anything, he wasn’t like _that_, he just wanted to look. No harm in looking. Everyone wanted to _look_ at Cap.

Steve took a half step back. The remainder of Brock’s jab fizzled out. Captain America had just ceded ground to _him_, he thought. He inched even closer, practically chest to chest now. He had to tip his head back a little to look Steve in the eyes (a clear, bright blue, swallowed up by the black of his pupils. Because of the poor lighting in the room, or something else…?). He was so close now, closer than looking, close enough to touch. Steve backed off a little more, bumping up against the wall.

Did Steve look _nervous_? He sucked a breath in; Brock glanced down, watching his chest expand. Imagining what was under those flannels. The STRIKE team were no strangers to locker room nudity, they’d all seen everything before, but this was different somehow. His eyes trailed lower. Oh.

_Oh_.

Brock grinned like a hyena. 

“Oh, you like this, hm?” Brock asked, his voice quiet. Almost purring. “You like _this_?” he trailed his finger down Steve’s abdomen down to his belt buckle. He covered one of Steve’s hands with his.

Steve made no move to push him off, no word to stop him. Almost like he was just as curious to know how far this was going to go.

Brock couldn’t afford to let his mask slip now. He had to keep up the cocky confidence he always had, even as his stomach churned. He hated himself for how much he _wanted_ this. Wanted to put Captain America on his hands and knees, to show him a thing or two. Or so he told himself. It wasn’t a _sex_ thing, it was a _power_ thing. He didn’t get off on having sex with dudes, he wasn’t a faggot. Besides. It was only gay if you took it in the ass or sucked another guy’s cock, and he didn’t do _that_. He unbuckled Steve’s belt, pulling it slowly out from his beltloops, and tossing across the motel room. He didn’t care where it landed.

“Take your clothes off,” Brock ordered, stepping back. “Keep it quiet. Do whatever you gotta do, then get on your bed. Be ready for me.”

Steve nodded, a high flush in his cheeks. He unbuttoned his shirt and slipped out of it. 

Pretending like he didn’t care, Brock half turned away as he began to undress. It had been a while since he’d done this with another guy. Girls were easy enough, pick ‘em up at any bar, just on the wrong side of tipsy, smile real nice, promise to show ‘em a good time. Drunk girls _love_ a charming asshole. Guys? He had to have a damn good reason to _want_ to pick up a guy, and no paper trail to tie ‘em back to him. Tonight was safe enough; apparently no one else knew that Cap was a faggot, and if he wanted to keep it that way, then he’d keep his mouth shut. Brock knew a thing or two about twisting the narrative to his advantage. He shuffled his pants and boots off and watched Steve’s bare ass disappear into the bathroom. It was a nice view. God, who was it who had first pointed out that Cap had the profile of a fucking Dorito? Massive shoulders, tiny waist. And a perfect round little ass—all his, to do with it whatever he wanted. He trailed off into his thoughts.

Steve returned from the bathroom holding a little tube of something. Brock shook himself out of his reverie and squinted at it, trying to make out the label. 

“Petroleum jelly from the emergency kit,” Steve explained as he climbed onto the motel bed, which groaned in reply. “I know there’s better stuff nowadays, but I wasn’t exactly planning for this.”

“Yeah, me either,” Brock said. “Prep yourself then give that to me when you’re done.”

Sitting on the edge of Steve’s bed, Brock didn’t watch as Steve fingered himself. Oh, he’d probably enjoy watching, but he wasn’t gonna do it. Couldn’t let Cap know he was _that_ far gone. He palmed his dick, pressing it up against his belly, giving it a couple slow strokes, and letting it spring back. He tried not to think about how much he wanted this. How long he’d been trying not to want to get Cap on his knees or bend him over, maybe even slap his ass a little. He wondered if Cap’d like that, getting slapped around. You gotta like something like that if you sign up to get punched, don’t you?

The bed squealed. Brock turned abruptly, twisting around to see what Steve was doing. It was a goddamn _picture_, Cap on his elbows and knees, legs spread wide, asshole ready for the taking. Steve was peeking over his shoulder, the tube of petroleum jelly in one hand.

“Oh good, you’re ready,” Brock said. He leaned over to grab the petroleum jelly from Steve and ignored the bed’s protests as he climbed up to kneel between Steve’s legs. He winced as he slicked himself up. The petroleum jelly was cold. Then again, he thought, it wouldn’t be cold for long.

Scooting in closer, Brock lined himself up. He gave Steve’s ass a little smack—just enough to let him know who was in charge here—and grabbed his hip. Steve grunted. Brock pushed in slowly, exhaling a long, shaky sigh through his nose. He shivered. It felt _good_. God_damn_ but it felt good. The guys were always tighter, hotter, didn’t complain about anal. He buried himself in Steve, grabbed his other hip, and dug his fingers in. He groaned with pleasure as he began to thrust. 

The bed squeaked in that undeniable way that meant no one could possibly mistake what was happening. It was certainly loud enough to be audible in both neighboring rooms. No one would dare mention it.

Moaning through clenched teeth, Brock was getting close. Steve was making such pretty little sounds under him, he almost didn’t care if he came first. It had nothing to do with chivalry or courtesy, but entirely to do with if he came first, the other guy usually expected a reach-around. Brock didn’t like giving reach-arounds; the only cock his hands were gonna touch was his own.

Maybe he could make an exception if it meant having dirt on Captain America.

(But good _god_, Steve was taking it so well, felt so good, maybe he could make an exception just because the sex was good.) 

Brock came with an inelegant grunt, fingers pressing bruises into Steve’s hips that would be gone by the time Steve got himself cleaned up. He hesitated a little, then slid his hand down, moving across Steve’s skin, only flinching a little as his fingers slipped through his pubes. _Just pretend it’s your own_, he told himself. He wrapped his fingers around Steve’s cock (smaller than he’d expected) and jerked him off the way he liked it himself. Steve came with almost a whine, a high moan. Brock grimaced and wiped the come off his hand onto Steve’s thigh. He pulled out without a word, climbed off the bed, and straggled off to the bathroom to wash up.

When Brock got back from the bathroom, Steve had laid down on the bed on his side, curled around the wet spot. He looked as tired as Brock felt. Brock tossed him the same damp towel he’d used. “Use this if you want, shower if you want, I don’t care. I’m going to bed and I don’t think I’m gonna wanna talk about this in the morning, got it?”

Steve made an indeterminate sound that could possibly be taken as agreement. Brock found his boxers, pulled them back on, and climbed into his bed. He rolled onto his side, back to Steve and pulled the covers up pointedly.

\-------------------------

If Rumlow and Rogers seemed to be on chillier terms in the morning when the STRIKE team all met back up than the night before, no one said anything. They’d just chalk it up to the mission failure and be done with it.

Except that Steve _knew_ what it felt like to have had a cock up his ass and Rumlow’s attitude was unmistakably one of someone who regretted a hookup, he could almost convince himself it had never happened. Almost convince himself that he’d imagined it all. As it stood, all he could convince himself of was that he’d made a mistake in a moment of weakness, swayed by the mysterious charm that complete assholes seem to be able to conjure up when they need it most.

Steve noticed that Brock made a point of not looking at him, not addressing him except when absolutely necessary. Two could play at that game.


End file.
